Thresholds and River Crossings

“Thresholds and River Crossings”

Sometimes,
When walking through an ancient rainforest
Along the north west pacific coast,
Deep in the belly of the Olympic Peninsula

You suddenly awaken from your well-worn path;
You know, that you’ve been walking a long time.

A shaft of golden light passes through the trees
In just the right way,
Anointing the feet of elders…holy ones
Eight-hundred-year-old Red Cedar and Douglas Fir.

 These lands of old growth, Cloaked in early morning mist
Whisper with ancient songs and stories

Awakened and illuminated
A thin place…A liminal space

An invitation to simply walk
From here
To there.

From the blackened embers of old beliefs and identities
Into a more visible, alive, wild indigenous self.

Thresholds such as these
Require honor and respect.
An offering of dried tobacco and
Yellow corn meal for safe passage;

A prayer to the ancestors to light the way.
Enveloped by earth, braided roots and ash,
It is placed gently in the burnt hollow of a old tree,

Offering accepted, Entranced granted,
You step through onto hallowed ground,
Consecrated by the soles of your feet on dark virgin soil.

Pulled forward by some mysterious force,
Unconcerned with the comforts
Of a life you have outgrown

 Loving now, silently, those you once loved out loud,
You move across a landscape of memory and belonging
Following the distant sounds
Of old church bells and river water

The most difficult river crossings,
You don't see coming, no warnings.
The very nature of their existence
Flowing from some cold, clear, dark mountain spring
Deep in the underbrush of your psyche.

So now you must cross this river
And your attachment to everything
And everyone you have known
Slips from your grasp.

Some thresholds disappear behind you
The moment you cross
Offering no return, No forgiveness.

Other crossings happen quickly,
You, barely noticing the slight wounding,
A small scar inscribed into your skin
By the silent gatekeepers.

The old ones remind us,
Offerings must be made at such places
Or they will be taken.
There will be a loss, there's no way around it.

Some thresholds bar your entry
Waiting for a wiser more humble approach.
And some are never to be crossed at all,

For the very price of doing so could be your soul.
Some thresholds open for a moment
Then close never to open again.

While still others, like the flickering of fireflies
On a warm summer evening,
Open and close and open
Again and again offering a piercing light
Of liquid grace into the darker crevices of your mind.

Some crossings can take years or even lifetimes to navigate.
Like the bloodlines that have come before,
Footprints and heartbeats left in the ground,
Carrying the deep, sacred storylines
Now etched into your face and hands.

Not seduced by destinations or acquisitions,
Distractions on this journey.
Into the desert you now walk,
Dragging behind you
The red prayers bundles of your people,
Human and non-human

The prayers of your descendants,
Human and nonhuman.
Calling you home
To the one life that you belong too.

Future generations crying from another
More distant mountain.
"Leave us your medicine in the ground so we may live!"

Four days and four nights
You sing and pray and cry.
No food passes your lips.
You smell of desert, sweat and fire.

Something above calls your attention.
An Eagle feather falling from bright blue sky
Into outstretched hands,

A prayer answered.
A three hundred year old spell finally broken.
White hearts and desert bones
Draw new stories in the sands at Council Wash.

The story of your passage,
The forging of character and the crafting of an elder,
Worked in deep by the underworld refiner’s fire & stone. Medicine for the people, human and nonhuman

After many years and many crossings
You carry a shaft of golden light in your eyes,
A blessing for the one who, on some ordinary day
Walks by your door on their way to some ‘routine importance’.

Suddenly they find themselves in a rain forest
Without a compass, a trail marker or a whistle.
The old maps are of no use here. You say

Only deep listening
And the distant sounds
Of old church bells and river water.

Written by Kedar S. Brown, July 2017

This poem was activated by an old coyote that walked out onto the airport runway as we were attempting to land in Edinburg, Scotland. Then getting locked up by boarder patrol and a walk through an ancient rain forest in the Olympic Peninsula that completed the story three weeks later. Everything in this poem actually happened. 🙏🏻